


Victoria's Worst-Kept Secret

by Vulgarweed



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crossdressing, Lingerie, M/M, Wings, feathers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lingerie shop in Soho acquires spiritual responsibilities, indirectly and accidentally. Written for Porn Battle 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victoria's Worst-Kept Secret

“Well, Saint Valentine was _hardly_ what they say, as I'm sure you remember...” Aziraphale said as he and Crowley strolled through Soho on a chilly February afternoon.

“Commercialism conquers all,” Crowley said. “Have you thought at all about what I suggested?”

Aziraphale tried to pass off his blush as a flush from the cold wind. “I suppose we could...”

“It's what they do,” Crowley said. “Seems like we ought to at least try it once, just to see what it's about.”

Aziraphale was still uncertain peering into the shop window while trying very hard to look like he wasn't. “I'm just not convinced that we need to...”

“Of course we don't _need_ to,” Crowley murmured, hand at Aziraphale's elbow. “But if we're going to be a proper couple...”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said with a little smile. “I don't think we'll ever be _proper.”_

Crowley chuckled. “And a good thing, too.”

“But,” Aziraphale went on, “I realise this is part of the ritual, but isn't this aspect of it really intended for the ladies?”

“Not necessarily,” Crowley said. “Certainly not from _this_ shop.”

“Well...”

“It's all about texture, I think,” Crowley said, having found a point to balance on for a while. “One would think that sex is _all_ about the tactile, but really, I think that sense gets kind of neglected.”

“I don't disagree, but...”

“It can't be emphasised too much, can it?” Crowley let his hand slide from Aziraphale's elbow to the inside of his forearm. Even through Crowley's leather glove and Aziraphale's wool coat sleeve, the touch heated. Aziraphale gave a little shiver and glanced sidelong at Crowley.

“Yes, let's try it,” he said. “Shall we?” He started to push the shop door open.

“Let's not shop together,” Crowley said. “I want it to be a surprise. What we choose. Besides -” his voice dropped. “I just know I'll look so good that you'll ravish me in the changing rooms, and that would create a scene. Even here.”

Aziraphale swallowed once and looked up at him with a smug defiance. “Perhaps you'd be the one to ravish me.”

Crowley smiled like a snake making promises. “Yes, that's always a posssssibility.”

 

***

Aziraphale took a deep breath and emerged from Crowley's bathroom, wrapped in a thick flannel dressing gown. And he gasped in a nearly violent way at what the bedroom had become when shining in blazes of candlelight. Every horizontal surface had apparently bred great herds of them; every one, that is, except for Crowley's bed. The swaying little flames cast Crowley's bedroom in rich tones of red and gold, a slightly blinding play of light and shadow, which was something of a relief because Aziraphale actually needed to look away for just a second from the creature presenting him with a glass of wine.

Somehow, the ensemble Crowley had put together managed not to be feminising – the crimson silk camisole and matching fluttery-edged shorts, the black suspender belt that clung miraculously to his slim hips and drew the eye to the sheer black stockings casing his long legs, and the dark snakeskin high-heeled pumps, all of which managed to accentuate his form in such a way that the _maleness_ of the body he wore under all that seemed more pronounced than usual. The bulge in his knickers was almost redundant. Though Aziraphale knew it wouldn't be for long.

Crowley obligingly stretched, and ran a hand over the red silk pulled tight across his chest. “I hope that's not the best you could do,” he said with a lusty smile, looking at the trembling column of tartan flannel.

“I think not,” Aziraphale said and let the offending robe slip to the floor.

Crowley's eyes blazed in the dimness as if they had wicks.

Crowley felt completely hypnotised by the sight of Aziraphale, in a black chemise that just skimmed the tops of his plump thighs, his legs covered in ivory lace. And there was that black gauzy bedjacket trimmed in soft feathers that fluttered in no breeze at all and rose and fell with Aziraphale's suddenly rather heavier breathing. They were feathers of cream and bronze and dark gold, feathers Crowley _knew,_ and was powerless to resist crossing the distance between them to touch and sniff.

“This,” Crowley murmured enraptured so terribly close to Aziraphale's ear, threading his fingertips through the fluffy down, “was _evil.”_

“I'm not about to wear someone _else's_ feathers,” Aziraphale said. His voice choked as Crowley pulled him close, one hand snapping a suspender strap against the back of his thigh and sliding underneath and upwards.

“To the bed?”

“Yes.”

It wasn't like them to leave an open bottle of wine barely touched for so long, but the poor neglected thing would just have to take some time and breathe, as angel and demon rolled and tangled slowly across the bed, hands and mouths roving all over to take savouring stock of frill-and-silk-coated skin.

“What do you want to do?” Crowley purred, fingers teasing Aziraphale's nipples with the slightly rough lace of his chemise.

“I...everything... _I don't know,”_ Aziraphale admitted, his hands exploring Crowley's taut arse under red silk, lingering at the crease where his cheeks met his thighs, one hand sliding between to push and press and lightly squeeze.

“Have sex, _obviously,”_ Crowley growled, stalling for time, and hitching Aziraphale's lace-trimmed skirt to his waist, admiring the slick flushed cockhead poking out of the pink lace briefs beneath.

Their problem was an embarrassment of riches: the decadent costuming was calling so much attention to every single erogenous zone on both of them that prioritising and decision-making was completely impossible. Just the sight of the dark hairs on Crowley's legs trapped beneath the sheer stockings like water plants under winter ice had Aziraphale entranced for long, heartbeating seconds while Crowley held his breath and shivered under every touch. (Sex is often derided as a base, simple thing—yet, to them, it seemed there were so many possibilities and combinations and permutations that immortal beings would never exhaust them all even if they could spend all eternity doing nothing else, which of course was their heartfelt wish at the moment.)

Aziraphale was sprawled on his back, caressing helplessly; Crowley straddling him, staring and admiring and occasionally bending to lick and kiss and bite, lost in the feeling of Aziraphale's hands roaming him. The candlelight turned Crowley's skin golden and Aziraphale's rosy. Crowley moaned softly as Aziraphale's hand moved between his legs, palming his achingly hard cock, rolling his balls in silk, pushing a finger at his hole, wondering if Aziraphale really wanted to push his cock inside him now or if this was enough, this rolling, sliding grind they'd devised, thin fabrics whispering. Crowley bent low, licking, and Aziraphale's other hand slid up his shoulderblade, as far as it could go.

“Your wings...please,” Aziraphale begged. “Mind the candles.”

“I'm already on fire,” Crowley whispered, letting them out. Great spreading curtains of feathers, darker red than his camisole, opened out and filtered the light, releasing a light musky scent and surrounding them, stroking their legs with feathers, as their hips moved together more urgently. One thin red strap fell from Crowley's shoulder, baring a nipple, and Aziraphale pinched it, moaning softly at the hungry beauty of it all as Crowley started to helplessly ride him harder.

“I want to make you come,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley's cock, arching up and pressing his hand between them.

“It'll get all over you,” Crowley gasped.

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “Yes.” He speed up his hands and hips, grabbing Crowley's arse to push them together almost cruelly, his own erection sliding roughly between Crowley's thighs, rubbing _everything._

“Do you want to fuck me?” Crowley asked.

“Yes...but I won't make it...I'm close too....”

Squeeze. Twist. Moan. Crowley came harder and faster than he'd thought, broadsided and shuddering, feeling violent, cruel relief, spattering Aziraphale with his spunk from his belly to his throat.

Crowley's wings jerked and flapped three times with a great thumping noise, and the air they displaced blew out all the candles at once, leaving Aziraphale gasping and coming in complete darkness, thrusting up against Crowley's arse and completely soaking the thin red shorts with wet heat, while Crowley still twitched against him. Crowley collapsed upon him and they rocked out the last tremors together, chest to chest, smeared in goo and kissing.

On trembling arms Crowley gazed down at Aziraphale—sweaty, disheveled and stained, and the most debauched thing about him was that goofy, half-conscious smile. He looked exactly the same, of course, blissed-out and splotchy. He leaned back down and let Aziraphale embrace him and lick softly at his shoulder and neck.

“Was a good idea,” Aziraphale admitted.

“I'm full of them,” Crowley muttered, grinning and spent and boneless.

***

It was such a good idea that sometimes, months later, Aziraphale would occasionally miss a button on his shirt deliberately, so that when he leaned over the table at the Ritz to pour more wine, he would give Crowley a glimpse of lace and satin beneath.

Sometimes years later, on the park bench, Crowley would hitch up his trouser leg to scratch an imaginary itch on his calf, and make sure Aziraphale noticed the seamed stocking.

It almost never failed to ensure that what ever errand either had planned for the day would wind up being put off in favour of more pressing and pleasant business, thus granting humanity a tiny dram more of thwart-and-wile-free downtime. In this respect at least, the spiritual well-being of the world came to hinge not nearly as much on any religious leader as on a certain lingerie shop in Soho that specialised in gentlemen's sizes. The shop owners remained blissfully innocent of their great metaphysical power.


End file.
